


Follow Through

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Worship, Xenophilia, exploratory sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ford is curious. Bill is indulgent. Exploratory triangle sex PWP.





	

“Go on,” Bill said. The words dragged across Ford’s consciousness like a finger might his skin. “Satisfy your scientific curiosity.”

It felt remarkably like being caught with a crush in the seventh grade; a part of him was braced, still, for Bill to start chanting, _Stanford has a cru-ush, Stanford has a cru-ush,_ and, _ew, do you really think I’d like_ you? But this was nothing like that; Ford was nothing like the boy he’d once been. Certainly, Bill was unlike anything in this world, or any others. This was a gentle tease, one that carried the admission that Bill wanted him to follow through.

Ford cupped his hands in the air. Bill floated down into them, a light prickling sensation emanating from him. For a moment, Ford didn’t move, simply kept his hands cupped around Bill’s small body. He didn’t know precisely what he was waiting for. One of Bill’s small, black hands settled on the meat of Ford’s thumb and gave it a squeeze.

Ford pressed his hands in. It felt exactly the way he thought it would feel – Bill was thin, and his edges weren’t _quite_ sharp, and the tingling sensation was stronger when Ford applied more pressure. He was warm, like a human who was flushed. He supposed that made sense; he emitted light, and energy. 

Currently, Bill was large enough that Ford would have to exert effort to cover him with both of his hands, but small enough that he was easy to maneuver and manipulate. Ford turned him over, first, this way and that, just looking at him from every angle. Bill let his arms and legs dangle and didn’t protest or speak; his only change was his eye going half-lidded and sedate, as if he was enjoying this. That seemed unlikely, but Ford was pleased, nonetheless. 

There wasn’t much to see. As far as Ford could tell, he was exactly what he seemed from a distance – just a triangle with an eye, a top hat, and limbs. Ford couldn’t see any glitches in him that might imply there was something beyond Ford’s sight, and there was an odd lack of texture on his facets – even his bow tie was flat, inlaid in his body. Ford flipped him onto his back again and studied him. 

“Like what you see?” Bill said, in that same teasing voice. 

“You really are just – this,” he said.

“Ouch! That hurts, Sixer.” Bill slapped his hand over his eye, like he’d been wounded. “What, this ain’t enough for ya?” 

“That isn’t what I meant!” Ford flushed. “I only thought…”

Bill cackled and slapped Ford’s hand. “I know,” he said. “And you thought right.” When Ford frowned, puzzling it out silently, Bill traced a little circle on Ford’s hand. “I’m a shapeshifter, Brainiac. This is the shape your human brain can comprehend.” 

“Ah.” He rubbed his thumb against Bill, just under his bow tie, without really meaning to. Bill’s light shivered, sharp and bright. Ford froze.

“C’mon,” Bill said, indulgently, “I know you’re not done, yet.” 

Ford supposed he wasn’t. 

He was sitting in one of Bill’s blue chairs, with Bill’s chess table within arm’s reach. Ford scooted forward and rested his forearms against the table. Bill lifted a few chess pieces, lazily toying with them in the air as Ford began to touch him.

Ford started tentatively. He slid his thumbs across the brick pattern on Bill’s front, slow; they weren’t, he realized, as perfectly smooth as they appeared, inlaid just enough on Bill’s body that Ford could pick out the texture. He edged a fingernail into the grooves, and Bill made a sound Ford had never heard, a mix between a gasp and a yelp. Ford froze. The chess pieces knocked together and clattered onto the table. “Go easy!” Bill said, glowing bright and hot.

“I didn’t – forgive me.” 

Bill relaxed and rolled his eye. “It’s fine,” he said. “Go on.” 

Ford hesitated. When a few seconds had passed, Bill smacked his hand again. Bill wanted this. He wanted _Ford_ to do this.

He started again, careful, this time, to only use the pads of his fingers. He traced the lines, delicately. Bill’s eye drifted shut. He took the cuffs of Ford’s sleeves in his hands and held them tightly; it was a weirdly submissive gesture, and made Ford flush. Heat coiled, for the first time, in his gut. He hadn’t considered at any length the power that Bill was conferring to Ford in this, hadn’t thought about the implication that Bill would subject himself to Ford’s scrutiny, his hands, his desires. 

It was sublimely erotic. He wanted, suddenly, to lick Bill, just to see what he would do. He refrained. It could wait. 

He stroked his thumbs in slow, sweeping arcs over Bill’s body, not following the lines of his brickwork, anymore, just touching him to see what Bill would do. Bill tensed; his hands tightened on Ford’s sleeve. His eye shut. It was almost exactly the way Ford would expect a human to display arousal, and it seemed genuine, because Bill’s eye flickered open again as if he was annoyed by his own reaction. He said, “When I said easy, I didn’t mean _that_ easy, Fordsy.”

Ford shifted his grip on Bill and edged his thumb toward the corner of Bill’s eye; Bill flinched and moaned softly. The sound pulsed through Ford. He bit his lip.

“Not the eye,” Bill muttered.

“I won’t,” Ford said. He shifted in his seat; his slacks were too tight, rubbing uncomfortably against his cock. But he was unwilling to let go of Bill, as if releasing him would break the moment. He started to stroke Bill’s edges, and gave a little jolt of surprise at the way Bill writhed – and then, something dripped onto the table.

Ford blinked, and lifted Bill a little higher, angling his lowest base up. There was a line of black liquid between Bill’s legs, a color so dark that it felt like looking into a void rather than _at_ something. Ford swallowed. “What…is that?”

“What d’you think?” Bill said.

Ford cupped Bill’s back with one hand; the other traced down Bill’s side, and then across, to the space where Bill was beginning to drip. Bill spat out a cipher, his voice warped in a way that made goosebumps rise on Ford’s arms. Ford thumbed tentatively at the liquid, and his finger almost sank into Bill, into a heat so intense that it almost hurt. Ford gasped and jerked his hand back; Bill spoke again, his voice booming off the landscape, thrown across Ford’s dream. 

Ford looked at his hand. It was like ink, but thick, and warm. “Is it…is it safe?”

“Am I?” Bill said. “C’mon, Sixer, I don’t have all day. Fuck me already.”  

“How?” Ford asked, though he already knew the answer. He slid his thumb along the slit again; Bill’s light glitched, sparking off of him. His hands twisted sharply, with enough strength that Ford’s arms jerked forward. 

“Keep asking questions that are beneath you, and I will put you beneath me,” Bill said. His voice rippled, reminiscent of a threat. Ford’s cock twitched; he went still for a moment, letting his desire wash over him. 

Then, he lifted Bill up, and leaned in, and pressed his mouth to the heat between Bill’s legs. 

“Finally! Jeez!” 

The oddest thing was – it had no taste. It was hot and viscous, and it dripped down Ford’s face in fat drops, but it was like licking _nothing._ Ford pressed his tongue flatly against the dip in Bill’s body and began to lick, a little desperately, as if he might mine taste out of Bill and root himself in it. Bill’s reaction was loud, and intense – he started to speak in a stream, that language that was his mother tongue and that always sounded utterly alien to Ford’s ears, _almost_ English, _almost_ an Earthen language. He bucked, his feet and hands shifting; the chess pieces on the table began to tremble horribly, and above them, the decorations that always loitered in their shared dream space began to crack.

It was like he was taking apart the world by taking apart Bill. 

It was a power Ford had never felt before. 

Bill’s hands latched suddenly onto Ford’s hair, holding him tight – if he’d wanted to stop for any reason, he would be hard-pressed to; it was fortunate, then, that Ford could do this for as long as Bill wanted him to, Bill’s arousal dripping down Ford’s face, onto his shirt. Licking the void out of Bill, stroke by stroke. 

The dream began to glitch; Bill’s hands were becoming _wrong,_ too many fingers, and then none, the size and shape flitting; Bill’s body began to grow, and shrink again, and flicker in on itself – but always, always, Ford’s face was kept in its place, and he moaned into Bill’s slit, sucking and kissing and licking, wanting to suck Bill clean. 

Then – without warning – everything righted itself, became orderly and neat. Bill had teleported away, leaving Ford dripping with Bill’s wetness, his tongue still hovering in the air. Ford’s body shuddered once, violently, with desire, and he palmed himself. Just that was almost enough to make him come, but Bill’s voice brought him to himself before he could.

“Down here,” he said. “Get down here.” He was hovering just above the ground on his back, his legs spread, his body still dripping. 

Ford hit his knees without hesitation and unbuckled his slacks. “Bill,” he said, “my muse, my – “

“Yeah, yeah,” Bill said, “spray it, don’t say it.” 

He was the same size as before; Ford wasn’t a big man, but he dwarfed Bill, like this, and he struggled for a moment to settle in a position that felt right – when his cock was lined up against Bill, Bill was mostly squashed by his stomach. Bill didn’t seem to mind, however, because when Ford tried to adjust, he kicked him and said, “C’mon!” 

Ford shakily took himself in his hand and pressed against the divide in Bill’s body. Then, he thrust forward, and was _in_ him, and Ford’s thoughts fell away. It was almost painful, too warm, too tight, the edges of Bill’s body pressing into his hips, but it was the edge of pain that made it better. Ford braced his elbows on the floor and began to thrust into Bill, hard and shallow as Bill grappled with Ford’s shirt, twisting and yanking it like he wanted to take it off without ever quite making it there. Ford fucked him like the lowly thing Bill must take him for, desperate and fast, losing himself to the sound of Bill’s ciphers bouncing off the landscape, to the viscous heat that threatened to swallow him whole.

Ford jarred awake and came, so hard that he wasn’t sure he _was_ awake until he’d settled. He stared at the mundane brown ceiling, and panted, and shivered. The sound of Bill’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, a memory, he knew, just a memory.

He pressed his hand to his mouth. 

Well, he thought. They had hardly made any progress at all, today. 

He hoped that meant Bill would be back soon. 


End file.
